#fireloom fics

[pixiejinx]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Rick and Morty are withdrawing from an alien stimulant. Morty's not taking it well and Rick is being no help.

[fireloom]

A Sweet Gesture

Warm tones of sunset bathe over the pair walking the beaches of Malibu. A man and a young girl. Gentle breezes dance over them, chilly night air warning of it's coming. Rosie kicks her feet in the sand as Sherlock simply enjoys the feeling of it under his feet. He holds her hand. The beach is lovely at this time. dusk on a Tuesday evening in a residential part of the coast is quiet of people.

Rosie drops his hand and trots up to the water edge. Apparently investigating a fallen sandcastle. Sherlock patiently waits for her return. But It seems she has no intention to. Instead, he wanders to where the sand meets a raised boulevard and sits. He watches her playing in her own world. A smile tugs at his cheeks. The little girl has brought Sherlock more joy than he even expected. As Sherlock nears his fiftieth year, and Rosie her eleventh, he considers her and her father more than a blood family can be.

A little boy, around eight, wanders up to her. He holds his hand out with a shell of some kind in his palm. A decoration for the revived sandcastle. Rosie takes it and plants it on the tallest part of the castle. They're friends now. Rosie does so well at making friends. far better than Sherlock did at her age. The children begin to dig a moat around the castle, efforts joined. Sherlock admires how open a child's mind is.

"You're daughter?" Comes a male voice from behind Sherlock.

"Step-daughter," Sherlock corrects, still watching the kids. He can sense the other man watching them fondly as well. They run now, the sandcastle finished. playing a game of chase through the lapping water. But the boy falls over. He cries out to his dad in a whining tone. The man behind Sherlock utters worry and runs down to help him. Once the boy is righted, Rosie hugs him.

"You're married, then?"

Sherlock's breath stills in shock. He hasn't heard that velveteen voice in a decade. It's different now, in age and motherhood, but still so familiar to him. "Yes, two days ago." he begins, presenting the ring on his finger back to her. "Came here to make it official. He makes a good husband."

Irene joins him on the edge of the boulevard. "As does mine." Sherlock believes it. The man she has taken as a partner is well suited to family life. He now runs around with the children.

"You're son?" Sherlock asks.

"Yes. I fell pregnant soon after our last meeting." Her voice contains regret. Sherlock remembers that night. The damage they did to each other was irreparable.

"You've done well," Sherlock offers in subtle apology for their past mistakes. Irene smiles melancholic at the horizon.

"I have." Her eyes portray her sorries and forgiveness's. The pair let a moment pass, nurturing the gentle silence. They used to share it like this. Rosie and the boy pile sand over Irene's husband's legs, a huge smile planed on his lips.

"What is your girl's name?" Irene asks.

"Rosie. After her mother." Irene mods solemnly. She knows about Mary and her misfortune. "And your boy?"

"William Scott." Sherlock turns his head to face her with surprise. Irene smiles at his reaction, her eyes still facing forward. She lingers a moment before she turns to him with a soft expression on her face.

“Ode to another life.” Sherlock warms. They share a moment of understanding for each other, and for their situation before their eyes settle back on the playing trio. Sherlock speaks,

“Sweet gesture.”

[fireloom]

Dust globe

AN: Really old Adlock fic. One of my firsts actually! Call it throw-back Thursday, ey? please excuse the formatting and grammar and whatever mistakes. Anyway! Please enjoy this little bit of fluffy/comedy. And huge shoutout to @feigningeuphoria for roleplaying this little scene with me (Hint, hint, she’​s Irene)

So, that’s about it. Enjoy!

“I got you something...” Irene says as she reaches into one of her shopping bags and pulls out a small orb with a plastic stand on the bottom.  She sets it on the dash top in front of Sherlock's face.  He looks at the rink dinky little thing, eyeing the little specks slowly falling onto the small tower inside.

“It's a dust globe,” Irene starts, “like a snow globe but for the dessert.”  As Sherlock looks closers now he see the little inscription carved into the base: “Arizona”.

“A souvenir.  You know, because we're tourists now.” she teases, watching him watch the trinket. Sherlock looks at the thing for a good long while before he eventually gazes over to her, confusion written into his brow.

“Why?” he asks, referring not to the comment about being tourists, nor why someone would buy a thing like this. Not even why it's in front of him... Just why?

“I don't know... In case something happens to me,” she says, tilting her head slightly and swaying from side to side. She locks her elbow over her other hand and tracks a finger along her collarbone. She moves in small and delicate motions.  “You'll have something to remember me by.”  After another moment she continues, “and look. It's soothing.” She reaches over and shakes up the globe again, unsettling the dust and watching as it blooms and falls. Irene stares at it with a soft smile.  

“I can imagine how crazy things must get in that brilliant mind of yours...” she muses. She glances over and notices him still looking at her with an expression of curiosity instead of the subject of her conversation. She gently grabs his chin and directs his head back to face it.  Sherlock frowns at her before he gives in and looks at the orb. “Just stare at it and let it calm your head.”

He watches it for a long few moments until the very last particle settles. When the dust completely stills he shake it up again and continues watching it, his eyes darting about from speck to speck.

“It's nice...” he says, his voice quiet and wistful as his eyes stay locked with the dust. “But,” he starts, breaking out of his trance, “as for its sentimental value, I don't think it'll come to good use.”  he finally tears his eyes away from the globe and looks back to Irene. She locks gazes with him and leans over the car door with a soft grin and half lidded eyes.

“Don't be so sure, detective.” she purrs.  After a moment of intense staring she stands upright again. “Oh! I almost forgot...”  She reaches into another shopping bag with a big smile on her face. “I got something else for you.”  She looks at him with a cheeky grin for a second and then places a hat on his head.  “Thought it would remind you of home,” she says with a giggle. Sherlock keep his eyes on her for a moment before he realizes what she put on his head. With a growl of annoyance he takes it off and throws it on the other seat.

“You know how much I hate that hat!” he whines, unbeknownst to him he sounds like a child chucking a tantrum.  Irene laughs aloud, grinning wide at his reaction.

“Oh hush, it's just for fun.” she says, fighting through giggles. He looks at her, his eyes pouty. She lulls her laughter and goes back to swaying and caressing her collar.  “Plus,” she starts, looking him up and down, “it makes you look cute.”

[fireloom]

A Scandal in High Wycombe - Chapter 1

Hello Adlock Darlings!! The first chapter of my newest fic is here! This is being written by myself and my fantastic co-author, @thank-you-for-being-with-me! A round of applause for her guys. she not only came up up with this idea but has written such great passages for it! I couldn't have done it without you dear <3

This is a multi-chaptered fic, and since there is two authors and no way to split posts between blogs, the next chapter will be posted by @thank-you-for-being-with-me. We will alternate chapter posts, one for one, until the whole fic is completed. We will include links in each chapter to the previous and next for easier navigation. We will also be posting this to AO3 and Fanfiction.net when we have our accounts sorted out. Those links will also be included in each chapter.  

Without further adieu, please enjoy!

The letter is peculiar... John takes it from the stack of mail Misses Hudson brought up to them this morning. He inspects the crisp, red paper of the envelope. On one side is his address and the recipient, “Sherlock Holmes”, written in large, cursive script. There’s no stamp, so it was hand delivered. John’s first guess is a client inquiry, but the scent that wafts over the letter suggests otherwise. He brings it close to get a better whiff. Perfume. Roses. Perhaps fanmail. In any case, the detective himself will be the best judge.

 “Sherlock,” John speaks. The man hums in acknowledgment, but doesn't turn to face John. He stands by the window as he plays a sweet melody on his fiddle. “You’ve got a letter.”

 “What of it? I get lots of letters,” Sherlock lilts in his musicians trance.

 “This one’s different... It’s red.” The music stops like fingernails on a chalkboard, the jarring screech of bow on string piercing John’s ears as Sherlock spins around. He frowns at John before his eyes attract to the item of interest. Sherlock strides up and snatches the letter from his hands. John watches as Sherlock flips it around, scours over the writing and sniffs it. John can see when Sherlock catches up to where he got with deducing the letter and watches him gather further information. Sherlock’s expression change, falling into a softer feature as he takes a bated breath and bites his lip. In light of Sherlock’s change in behaviour, a niggling thought grapples it way into John’s mind.

 Red envelope, similar to a certain shade of lipstick. Handwriting, flowing and elegant, like that of a woman's (Sherlock had taught him the difference). Perfume of roses, a scent John smelt lingering on Sherlock for days after a certain meeting... The sender is glaringly obvious in this light. The Woman.

 Sherlock delicately peels back the gum stick to not rip the paper. John guesses this is in Sherlock’s own respect, given the way he usually tears into unimportant letters without regard. Why would The Woman not send another text, though? Sure, communication between the dominatrix and detective has been thin over the last year but a letter is new territory completely. Whatever this is, it’s important.

Sherlock pulls the letter out. The paper inside is a light pink stain, and embossed with a laid finish. Expensive, too expensive to waste on letters. This really is a special occasion. Sherlock unfolds it and begins to read aloud in a tentative voice.

“Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

I had hoped to use this paper, a certain favourite of mine, to send you a letter detailing far marrier intentions, but I am saddened to say, this is not so and never will be. The purpose of this letter is instead, to call upon you to witness the wedding of one Godfrey Norton, and Nera Driele on the twentieth of March. Sherlock, I hope you attend to see me off as a lone woman for the final time. That is all I wish from you. 

More details below...

        -  Very truly yours, soon to be Nera Norton.”

 A chill settles over the room as Sherlock trails off when reading out further details of the wedding, printed below. John’s heart sinks for the man. The Woman, the only woman Sherlock ever felt anything for, is marrying another.

 “So...” John begins, breaking that terrible silence. “Nera Driele is Irene’s alias?”

 “Correct,” his companion replies absently as he reads over the letter. The tinge in Sherlock’s voice brings John to wince. He hides it well to most but John can still hear the devastation. With Sherlock not offering any follow up, they fall into silence again. John makes his way to his chair and flops down, a wave of exhaustion coming over him. He’s found after quite a few of Irene’s little tricks and games sent over text, that John feels the brunt of Sherlock’s repressed emotions as if they were his own.

“She’s getting married then,” John muses. his fingers find the point of his temple as a pain breaks there. Sherlock’s eyes drift shut as he takes a long, slow breath. He folds the pink stained letter again, slips it back into the envelope, and places it on the mantelpiece. The pocket knife he usually jabs through most items stays resting beside it.

“What are you going to do?” John asks with a tone soft and non-intrusive. Sherlock replies with a shake of his head as he walks away from the fireplace and sits in his chair. Taking up his usual thinking position with his fingers steepled in front of his chin, Sherlock offers nothing more, but John is dissatisfied.

 “You’re just going to let this happen?” He pushes, his voice still quiet but getting more insistent. Sherlock hums in the affirmative. John cannot understand Sherlock’s outlook. How can he let this girl go without a fuss? Sherlock can’t really just want to go about solving crimes while Irene Adler lives out a married life with another. Once this day is over, everything between the two of them will be pure history, a vague memory tucked away in the back of Sherlock’s mind. John firmly believes if Sherlock were to ever love someone, it would only be The Woman.

“Is that what you want for her?” John tries again.

“It is not my place to tangle myself in her marital affairs,” Sherlock deflects, hiding behind his reason. John holds off on rolling his eyes in exasperation. The route of least resistance, is what Sherlock’s going for. Leaving himself out of her life in sacrifice of his own state of sentiment, and for what? To keep up a façade of elegant power over his own feelings. To John, that sacrifice is too much to make. There must be something, a little inkling of injustice in this marriage, that will be enough to sway Sherlock into taking action... John runs the words of the letter over in his head again and again, looking at every sentence, every statement with a fine lens to find anything. To his relief, John does.

“It’s hardly her place to marry someone she doesn’t love either,” he mutters. Sherlock looks up at John, a stern glint in his eyes.

“We cannot assume her relation to this man,” he states adamantly. A small grin spreads on John's lips. Now, it’s his turn to be a show off.

“I can when I know that this man is no match for her.” Sherlock looks at John in question, urging him to continue.  “I’m surprised you didn't recognise his name, Sherlock! Godfrey Norton is the divorce lawyer you recommend to clients.” John pulls his laptop open and searches the name. He hands the computer over to Sherlock. The webpage John pulled up is Godfrey’s site, “The Norton Law Firm.” The homepage displays a short biography and a picture of the lawyer. That much would be enough for Sherlock. He is at least twice Irene’s age and to John holds no desirable qualities a woman like Irene Adler would be looking for. This is hardly a choice she would make out of love.

“This is him...” Sherlock states, more to himself than John.

“Do you think she’d marry him out of love?”

“No,” Sherlock admits after a moment, leaning back in his chair and placing the laptop aside.. “This must be one of her scandals,” he adds absently.

“Could she divorce him for gain?” John asks. Sherlock chuckles in a condescending manner that John scowls against.

“Of course not. He’s a divorce lawyer John,” He starts again, a fire ignited in the way Sherlock enunciates his words, cutting with a hint of fury buried underneath the words own meaning.  “-and a good one too, going by the officiality of his website and the fact that I, at least subconsciously, know this due to my recommending him to everyone. No, if she does wish to split, she will come out of the divorce with less than she came in.” He stops. Sherlock lights with realisation, a glassy air of sadness falling around him. He continues softly. “She has to stay with him. She’s setting herself up for life under his coat tails.”

The thought had crossed John's mind. If even Sherlock has come to that conclusion then there’s hardly a doubt to be had. This marriage is legitimate, the union to be honoured for the rest of their lives. He nods in comprehension. The stakes are higher than he realised.

“What do you think about that?” John asks.

“Well, it’s not very creative, especially for Irene, but it works,” Sherlock says, completely missing or ignoring the actual meaning of John’s question. Another red flag in the tally for Sherlock’s sense of betrayal.

“No, I mean, what do you -not the consulting detective-, the person who...” John falters, looking for a word that won't startle Sherlock into repression like he usually does. He has learnt to choose his words carefully when speaking about The Woman. “…who knows her? What does that person think about this?” John settles with. Sherlock goes silent for a long moment. John searches the detective’s expression carefully.

“You don’t like it, do you?” He speaks. Sherlock sighs and closes his eyes.

“Not particularly,” He admits. John releases a breath. Finally, they’re getting somewhere. He puts up a jovial manner of speaking when he addresses him next, hoping to get them riled up enough to want to do something about this.

“Then what are you waiting for?” Sherlock doesn't react as John was hoping.

“She’s at the age to settle down now. It’s not my place to stand in the way of that plan,” he deflects again, regressing to the same place they were before. No. He’s not going to do that, not now. John has to work harder.

“Oh, I'm sure this wasn't her original plan,” he says with an undercut of bite in his tone and a deliberate ambiguity to his statement.     “What?”

“You, obviously being the idiot that you are, have made yourself unavailable to her. Do you really think she didn't dream it you up on that altar with her? She's not settling down, Sherlock, she’s settling for someone else.”

“So?”

“So...? This is your chance! Didn't you read between the lines?” Sherlock gives John a look of tethering confusion, the gears in his mind grinding arduously against each other as he tries to figure out what John’s getting at. He’s going in the right direction. if there’s one thing John knows gets to Sherlock, it’s confusion.

“She sent you a red letter, scented with roses, written in her own handwriting. Her last request as a free woman is to see you again! Not to mention “very truly yours,” that's a dead giveaway...” John chuffs at the situation. “And here I thought you were the smarter one of the two of us...”

“None of that matters. It's not my place to speak for what she wants!” Sherlock retaliates.

“When she’s begging you to crash the ceremony it is!” Sherlock goes to combat but instead takes a long pause.

“She wants that?”

“Yeah!” John says. His voice becoming jarringly out of place in lew of Sherlock’s smaller question. He softens his tone. “Yeah, of course she does... She loves you. That much is obvious. She wants you to go get her, give her that grand romantic gesture that everyone dreams of.” Sherlock bites his lip in thought, still mulling over his options. John tries a different tact

“She’ll slip through your fingers if you don't do this. Do you want to let that happen?” Sherlock averts his eyes for a second, his walls falling down.

“It’s not my place,” he repeats, his voice quieter.

“Tell me this, do you like her?”

“She... is a woman of her era. One I have never met before or since. So, yes. I like her.” The sentence seems almost hard for Sherlock to say, his voice fumbling over his words.

“Do you love her?” Sherlock doesn’t miss a beat.

“No.”

“Sherlock Holmes, do not lie to me, I can tell. I’ll ask again. Do you love her?”

“No. I... dont.”

“Oh, I think you do.”

“I really don’t.”

“Sherlock. I know what you say. I know you, for some weird reason, despise thinking of yourself as a human being with the capability of loving and being loved, but it’s not true. I saw you then, when you met her. Stars were dancing in your eyes, you had no control over your own tongue, you were looking for her when you woke up after she drugged you!”

“She was in my room!”“-I know it broke your heart when she died, and I know you were overjoyed when we found her again, so much so, you travelled halfway across the world to save her. I may not be a God in deduction like you but I know something you don't.”“And what's that?”“I know, without a shadow of a doubt, when someone is in love. You’re in love with her, and I can tell.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to retort but John cuts him off. “And don’t even start denying it now, Sherlock. I’m not an idiot. For once, I’m proud to say that this is one area where I am better than you and you can’t trick me by lying so just don’t.”

Sherlock closes his mouth, averting his eyes.

Finally. John thinks. He really should do this more often, there’s huge surge of satisfaction in getting Sherlock Holmes to shut up for once.

“Fine,” Sherlock says, standing up. Even John is taken aback by the admission. Sherlock disappears into his bedroom and comes back fully dressed in a suit -his special suit, in fact, John notes as he eyes the groom-like appearance of the clothing. “The ceremony starts in thirty minutes,” Sherlock states, buttoning up his jacket.

“Where is the wedding?”

“High Wycombe,” Sherlock mutters.

John chuckles. “Is that coincidence or irony?”

“The universe is rarely so lazy...”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Well... High Wycombe is a forty minute drive from here,” John says.

“Then we'd better be quick.” With steps brisk and full of intention, Sherlock starts toward the stairs. Smirking, John follows. 

[fireloom]

A Moment of Peace

By: Fireloom A moment of peace. It’s all they wanted. Their lives being torn to shreds in front of their eyes was all it took to bring them back to each other; clawing like animals at the other’s door, begging to be taken in and away from the harsh cold of a world they no longer understood.

His life was gone, and with it, every inkling of normality. Things change. They always said that, didn’t they? He lived by the statement but never really believed it. To him, he would always be the same. The same consulting detective, the same little brother, the same high functioning sociopath, the same person... Months of living this new life went past before he realised he didn’t even know that person anymore. And as those harsh days drew on, he no longer recognised the man he knew he should be.

Stability was lost, completely and thoroughly. He no longer had his older brother to bail him out of a tough spot, or his helpmate to have his back. It was only him. A solitary life. He always thought he had one but he learnt the hard way what one of those really meant for him. Days went past where he didn't say a word. Nights creeped on as he talked the walls of his hotels’ ears off. People say you go stir crazy in loneliness. He had only just begun to understand what that meant.

Maybe that’s why he first did it. The loneliness become overbearing to the point where he craved anything from another person. Just one bit of kindness that he didn't have to pay something for. He needed someone to fill the gaping hole that had torn itself into his chest.

He tried many things before then; pushing through the depression and just getting on with his mission, seeking out those little thrills with his first love; the stinging bite of the needle, but both of these ended in a regime that became too harmful. He needed something else...

He needed a moment away from the torment, from the addiction and the exhaustion. He knew he could never find a place where this moment existed on his own. He belonged nowhere now. He wasn't accepted to feel ok in the darkened world. At least before he had his apartment. His little, pokey, comfortable apartment. A place to call home.

But he didn’t even have that anymore.

It was chatter on the streets, as it always was, that set him on his venture. The streets were hot and smoggy, tarmac melting beneath his feat. locals scurried around him on their scooters or on foot. He already tried to find that moment of peace here. He failed in his mission. What started as a peaceful looking scenario ended with him hurling and retching into the ocean, chasing a member of the island mafia down, and having his passport stolen. He quickly gave up looking for that moment here... until he heard about a cottage on the far side of the island, tucked away in the rocks and creavases of a beachside cliff. Moreso, until he heard about the occupant of that cottage.

He knew this little cottage would be where he found that moment of sweet peace. When he knew what it meant, he felt what he’d come to know as hope. A hope that maybe things will be a bit easier afterward. And he was right. The world was still unfamiliar and callous to him, but just one night was all it took to get him through.

A buzz of sensation hit him when he approached the cottage. It was a relief to feel something again. All that he was was a dull numbness. Even when his life was threatened day after day, all he felt was the absence of everything. He didn’t even care anymore. But that moment was different. And as he knocked on the door he knew he was so close to finding a slither of peace.

She answered, as he knew she would. She didn’t ask but she didn’t have to. She knew why he was there. She took him into her home, gave him food and a place to rest. He needed the release of sustenance but moreso, her company was what gave back to him a life he had lost. They hardly spoke, in words that is. But nothing need be said. She understood what he was going through, what he wanted. She wanted it too. Just a little moment of peace.

The noon turned into evening and then night as they stayed there in that little cottage. She offered him a drink and he accepted. A smile crept onto his face at the bottle. Cobra Whisky. The drink was good, even though a few scales got caught between his teeth and the preserved snake kept giving him a beady glare. It was a delicacy that he enjoyed, just like the woman who gave it to him.

It wasn’t until the bottle was empty did he finally reach for the thing he always denied himself. He kissed her, and she kissed him back... The slither of emotion he felt before was but the buzz of a fly compared to the ocean of sensation he was drowning in. It was never ok before, but now that everything else had changed in its entirety, this one value might aswell too. He gave in.

He left the next day, when the moment was over and he had to return to the world that despised him. But he wasn’t alone after that. She had given him something, a piece of her heart. It was intangible, but he didn't need to see it, hear it, or feel it to know it was there. He left something intangible with her too, though some would say she took it from him. He says he gave it to her.  

After that day, the world seemed just a little brighter.

But it didn’t last long. The afterglow of that moment of peace wore off after the sixth or seventh near death experience and at least eighteen more notches on his belt. Life had taken it’s toll and he couldn’t see why he was doing it any more. So many times had he had to come to terms with his possible death that the threat of such no longer held weight. Not even from himself. His own death he had gotten into the habit of planning. He said that if somehow the hordes of criminals didn't get to him, he would do it himself. He didn't care. Didn't care if he got to end of his journey, didn’t care if he returned to London a hero or a broken man. The latter being more likely. They were safe, his family back home. Probably even more safe without him being there. So he toyed with the idea, dreamt of the day he would inject just a little too much cocaine, deliberately slipped up in a dangerous situation, or even participate in the more old fashioned ways. He'd taken the knife to his wrists more times than once.

But he never did it. Somehow, something was gripping onto him, pulling him away from going through with his suicide. Eventually he realised what it was. A tiny shattering of a broken woman's heart... She was the only one who would care anymore. So every time he felt her heart reminding him that someone still knew him, he put the knife away, put the needle down, stayed hidden until the right time. He kept himself alive for the glimmer of something that could have been.

Things got better eventually. He kept moving countries, changing names, doing his job. He got used to the new life he had become to accept as his own. The road to giving up on being that same person he always thought he was, was not as hard a he thought it would be. Not as hard as it felt. He stopped taking knives to his skin but he still jabbed needles in his arm. Less often, to his credit. He could feel that the end was near. That he would return to his old life soon enough. It took over him like a spring breeze, signalling the coming of energy and wonder again.

The nearing of his return home left a bittersweet taste in his mouth though. He knew that he would be giving one life for another. He would gladly throw this one away, stomp on it and light it on fire if he could. But one thing kept him holding onto it. He wouldn't see her again. The last time was easy. He had long since lost contact with Mycroft when he heard about her little cottage, and the only people who would even care that they were together have been dead for months. When he gets back home though... It will difficult, nearing impossible to attempt to see her again.

That’s why he was beyond glad the next time he met her. He didn't ask, but he didn't have to. He already knew why she was there. He took her into his home, gave her food and a place to rest. She needed the release of sustenance but moreso, his company was what gave back to her a life she had lost. They hardly spoke, in words that is. But nothing need be said. He understood what she was going through, what she wanted. He wanted it too.

Just a little moment of peace.

[fireloom]

Find Me

Big thanks to @thank-you-for-being-with-me, @annieanhworld, @romycosplay, and @randombiochemist for helping me come up with the inspiration to write today :D I hope you guys enjoy ❤

The subtle, warm shine of embers glowing red in the charred-black fireplace cast dancing hues over the figure strikingly pacing about the room.  Fingers splay over the fretless board of precious violin pressed to his shoulder and bow twirls against the instrument by manipulation of hand trained and tuned to the delicacies of music. A song trills from the strings with fanciful elegance. The walls of Baker Street’s apartment 221B soaks the notes into their papered confines and carries the tune down to the landlady in apartment below, while the open window lets free the song upon the flocks of drunken weekenders, some of which stop in their hobbled stride to pay audience to the composer above as he laments his Magnum Opus.

The song is interrupted after an indefinable stretch of time by the sound of lurid text alert. The chords scratch jarring end to the song as fine horsehair, stretched thin, is pulled along them and then away. The phone is retrieved and message read by eyes adept in the art of observation… Fingers precise and calculating rapidly type a reply to bring smirk to lips only used for speech until tonight. The message is sent and phone placed back down.

The room no longer carries notes of lament written from the throws of sentimental attachment but instead, the sounds of hurried packing. In minutes the flat is left empty of song, or sound, or voice. The only life gracing the room is the dimming coals of flames long since died down, and the bright light of messages displayed on the screen flickering with the oscillation of LED pixels. Words dictate the promise of affection bordering on even love, until they fade away with the automatic timing out and relocking of the device.

“Find me.”

“I’m coming.”